Piecing together a wounded heart
by silvertearsonwater
Summary: When Christine's father died she never expected to be happy again until she met Erik Dawson. The boy her father died for Erik Dawson. My first story
1. Chapter 1

**Piecing together a wounded heart**

**Chapter 1**

**The Hospital Room**

Christine Daaë sat alone in the dimly lighted room where Charles lay with a compress on his forehead. Her father had been on life-support for two days now and she and her mother had done everything they could to keep him alive. Dr. Wilson had come into her father's room the night before and told Lotte in heavily accented French (her English was not very good) that he believed her husband was brain-dead and it was time to pull the plug. Christine, in the limited French she understood from her classes only got the words, "dead, pull plug". She had wept so hard that night that her mother had told her that she could stay with her father that night. Lotte had then, (upon her daughter's request) returned home to sleep, leaving the girl with her ailing father. She sat by him looking for the entire world like a beautiful angel kneeling by the sickbed of a man she awaits to escort to heaven.

She was a child really, only sixteen, but beautiful none-the-less, the true definition of beauty. Her long chocolate hair, pale as her mother Lotte, with the blue eyes of her father always bright with innocence and naivety that was she was cursed with at birth. Charles Daaë was a handsome man, blonde and curly-haired like his Christine. It was easy to see that she was his daughter, mostly because he told everyone. No, the whole of London knew that she was Christine Daaë, the famed beauty of the good man who was everything a woman could want.

Charles was a world-bestselling novelist who was most famous for his famed book about Little Lotte and the Angel of Music, entitled Everything and Nothing. His book was the newest thing in London and of course everyone knew the story. They were tales of a man who was deformed and horribly ugly but could sing like an angel and Lotte an orphan whose head was always in the clouds. How she loved the man for his voice, but knew nothing about him and in the end he left her alone for a man she knew before him, driving him so mad with love and rage that he was forced to let her go and she did. Only to leave the poor deformed man who loved her to go on alone in the world.

Publishers and critics alike often begged Charles to write a sequel, but his book, as he often said, needed no sequel, not that anything did. Her father had always hated sequels and when people asked him what his inspiration was he would always take out his cellphone and flash the wallpaper that was a photograph of him, Lotte and his daughter. 'This is my daughter,' he would say, 'yes, my daughter believe it or not. She is my wife's image is she not?' When they said that she was indeed the image of his _lovely_ wife he would grin in that charming way and say, 'She's little Lotte, my baby is my inspiration.'

Christine had often told him that she did not like it when he said 'believe it or not' that she found it mocking, but he always laughed at her and said, 'ah but I say that because you are so beautiful and my child I as you know am no more than a sentimental old man.' She would laugh at that and then she would go to do her arithmetic with his help of course. He was there for her when she wanted to learn to play the violin and never missed a single performance she had. He was there when she graduated eighth-grade as Valid Victorian.

When she took ballet he was there right beside her mother, turning his cellphone off and telling all his publisher and editors to leave him be while he watched his Little Lotte. Charles had always been an unstoppable man, charmer in every sense, a man who was loved by all who knew him, the kind of man who just lived to love and gave his best at it every day. That was how he used to be; before three days ago, now he was lying on the chemical-smelling bed of St. Almond Street hospital, looking pale and sick. A monitor beeping above him and IVs galore with wires protruding from him, his breathing labored and weak.

The soft pattering of feet came to her ears and when she turned she saw her mother pulling off her sweatshirt and winter gloves. Her makeup was smeared as though she had been crying, the beeping of the monitor beeping eerily. Christine looked over at her and felt the tears coming to her eyes, the nurse brought in the food and Christine took the Jell-O and threw it into the trashcan. She could not stand the sight of it, her father had always made Jell-O when it rained and she did not want to see it. After a minute she tossed the whole tray in the garbage because there was always the nagging thought that her father would never eat again….

"Christine, baby, come here." Her mother's voice was soft.

She did as she was told, going to her mother who wrapped her arms around her, shaking and trying not to cry for her sake. That was something she loved about her mother, so strong and gentle even when her heart shattered.

"Let go mum, cry…" she whispered knowing that she needed to.

"No, he hated it when I cried." Lotte whispered, though her voice was strained.

"Bloody hell mum- excuse the language- but he's unconscious, do you really think he cares?" Christine asked and immediately regretted it.

Lotte cried then, crumbling to her knees and covering her face with her hands, her daughter felt a stab of remorse. "Oh _mon ange,_ _s'il vous plaît, s'il vous plaît ne pas dire de telles choses!"_ Christine sighed, knowing for the first time just how much pain she was in. When her mother started to speak in only French she was in agony that she could no longer hide.

"Mum…Mummy…" she whispered leaning down to take her into her arms.

The older woman held her for a long moment and then they heard the sound of a cough and then a wheeze. Turning the two women saw forget-me-not eyes looking worriedly at them and the two of them went over to the bed where her father lay. Lotte smiled weakly through her tears, stroking the blonde curls from his sweaty forehead. He raised his hand to cover hers with bumpy fingers calloused from the constant tapping of the laptop keyboard.

"Little Lotte, "he wheezed, then turned to his wife, "Charlotte, my Lotte, my dark-haired beauty."

"Yes Charlie, I'm here, Christine's here too." She whispered kissing the corner of his mouth.

He weakly turned his head just enough to give her a sorry attempt at a kiss, and Christine could see sweat dripping from his forehead at the simple excursion. Charles lifted his hand to beckon her over and when Christine came and sat by the bed he smiled. Taking her hand in his he used the rest of his strength to stroke Lotte's hair. Christine waited with him as she prayed that he would be okay, tugging at the zipper of her coat, a nervous habit that meant she was troubled or frightened and one that drove her mother nuts.

"Christine, baby, I want you to do something for me," her father wheezed.

"Yes papa?" she asked.

"Remember the vocal lessons you took?" he asked her, she nodded, "Sing me that song that won you the lead in choir that love song…"

She nodded, how could Christine deny him this, a simple trivial thing like a song to carry him off. Christine blinked hard, knowing it may be his last request, closing her eyes she froze hoping she had not forgotten the words. For a moment fearing that she had in her distress she was shattered to think that she must deny her father this, but opening her eyes she gazed into his blue eyes, that pleading look and just like magic the lyrics came flooding back. The teenager began in a shaky voice that grew in confidence every time her father smiled, or weakly brushed her knuckles with his thumb.

_"What'll I do when you Are far away And I'm so blue, What'll I do? What'll I do when I Am wondering who is kissing you, what'll I do?  
What'll I do with just, a photograph to tell my troubles to? When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what'll I do? When I'm alone with only dreams of you that won't come true, what'll I do?"_

Charles sighed in content with his daughter's voice, "Thank you Little Lotte that was beautiful, "he coughed harshly, "God is good, he let me wake long enough to say goodbye. Forgive the boy I died for; promise me you will forgive him. Remember to follow your dreams Little Lotte and that I am always there even if you cannot see me."

His wife nodded, but Christine made no move to agree, she could not forgive the one who had stolen her father no matter what the circumstances. Her father was leaving her forever and she did not care if he was there in spirit where she could not touch him. Then he breathed in and let out the 'rattle' of his dying breath, the monitor went off, _beeeeep, beeeeep, _Lotte had begun to cry, and the nurse came in to turn of the cold florescent light above his bed. Christine knelt down by her weeping mother to take her in her arms but said nothing. She knew that no amount of comforting words would help her this father had passed on into the next world.


	2. Chapter 2

**Piecing together a wounded heart**

**Chapter 2**

**Television **

Christine sighed as she put her hand on the side of her bedroom door as she felt tears burning in her throat. How could this have happened? Her father, her poor father had been so young and so gentle, how could he have died. Her mother Charlotte stood beside her, beautiful, middle-aged and entirely broken. The raw, harsh reality of the loss of the man she loved was evident in her eyes. It broke Christine's heart and the teenager had trouble opening her arms for the poor woman. Doing so would mean she had to admit the truth, that this nightmare was real. Offering her mother comfort would mean that she acknowledged the death of her father. She did so nonetheless and pulled the woman closer to her, feeling the trembling form of the woman as she started to cry.

Christine felt her mother's tears fall on her forehead, hot and painful as though formed from Chinese water-torture. One of the large white buttons of her dress cut painfully into her forehead, her arms were loose and she seemed to want to drop to her knees. Christine didn't dare look up however; she could not bear the sight of her mother's tears. It was hard enough as it was to hear her sobs of, 'oh my beloved…oh Charlie.' Justified though her tears were her daughter hated them though she knew that she had reason enough for them. Christine knew that she would weep too if the love of her life died and her father had died so unexpectedly.

The teenager took her mother by the arm and helped her into a large armchair, kneeling down at her feet to take her hand gently. As Charlotte felt the soothing touch of her child's hand on hers she felt more tears welling up. The scene would have appeared charming were it not for the somber mood that took them both at the sound of the phone going off, and her father's voice saying that he would be late for their evening walk in Hyde Park. The girl had to brush a tear from her eye, knowing that her father would never have those walks with them again.

Christine walked to the wooden and yet well-cushioned rocker, and removed the faded patchwork quilt and laid it gently on her mother's lap tucking it around the poor woman snugly. She had made the quilt for her father as an anniversary gift. She smoothed her mother's curls away from her forehead and kissed her brow that was creased with grief. Her mother's eyes were closing and her breathing was beginning to slow, she could see how tired her mother was, knew that she needed her rest. Charlotte mumbled incoherently as she laid her head in the fold of the winged armchair exhaustedly and closed her eyes, breathing very deeply only once before she began nodding off to the land of sleep.

"Close your eyes and get some rest mamma, you are going to need it." She murmured and stroked her small hand gently.

Christine went to her father's piano and began to play _Wishing you were somehow here again. _Her mother's favorite song, since Andrew Lloyd Webber had bought the rights to Everything and Nothing in order to make _The Phantom of the Opera_. Charlotte smiled in her sleep, and Christine smiled to herself as she kissed her mother's forehead. Christine then went into the kitchen; she knew it was going to be a long night. Her mother would need comfort, and she would no doubt be sick with nightmares, so Christine knew she would not sleep a wink. Christine shook her head as she at last let her own grief for her father to take control and she sat down in one of the dining chairs and cried softly for several moments.

She got up from the table and went back into the living room where her mother snored softly in an exhausted and grief induced slumber, her gentle features pale and knitted together. her middle- her form was trembling with the force of her unshed tears, Christine sighed and kissed her mother awake and as soon she opened her eyes the tears trickled down her rosy cheeks once more.

" Shh, mama." Christine crooned to the woman as though she were a child who had suffered a nightmare.

Christine soothed and smiled a she helped her mother to her feet, she made her way to help her mother into her nightclothes and guided her to back into the sitting room and helping Charlotte back into her chair. Charlotte took the TV remote and turned on the news just in time to hear the story of her husband's death. Christine wanted to change the channel, not wanting to hear anything from the FYI network tonight. She hated that station, her and her cousin Meg always called it the "Vampire Network" because they were all up in the it bleeds it leads thing. _"_

_Earlier, today world-famous novelist Charles Daaë was pronounced dead at Saint Almond Street hospital. Insiders say that the man had been suffering from a gunshot wound. Reporters say that Daaë was shot protecting a young man, by the name of Erik Dawson. There is no word from the boy's parents as of now. The writer leaves behind a wife and seventeen-year-old daughter, we wish them the best. This is Paul Akon, with the latest on the FYI news network: All News all the time."_

"Yeah right," Christine muttered under her breath.

A picture of her father in his best suit flashed on the screen, he was standing on a red carpet at the Grammy's where he won an award for the written word. Christine and Charlotte were there too, by his side, he was kissing his wife and had one arm around Christine who was leaning against his arm. They were probably having a bloody filed day with this, the famous romantic writer shot down protecting a child, leaving behind massive fortune with wife and child. Oh the honor of it, oh the feast of the media, what a story this was for them.

_"And now here's Julia Patterson with the weather." _

A woman with shaggy, brown hair and a boney face appeared on screen, standing in the downpour with a red microphone. She had a wolfish set of features and her eyes were of the gossipy sort, she looked like the kind of person who would have run for American office. Charlotte had ceased to cry at least but now she sat staring at the screen as though she were numb.

_"Thank you Paul, as you can see it's in quite a heavy downpour predicted to continue for several more days. Everything is wet, wet, wet! So stay inside and stay dry, bundle up." _The woman's face faded away to the advertisements.

Christine was kneeling beside the armchair in which her mother sat in as she wrapped her arms around her. Remembering how her father had used to love rainy nights where he would lay down beside her and play the violin. Or he would go out and sing 'I'm Singing in the Rain' as he was acting goofy and laughing. It made her eyes water as the Television blared a commercial for her father's favorite cologne and then Rein Gold beer. The only type of beer her father drank.

"My beer is Rein Gold the dry beer…" Christine copied the jingle as she remembered her father's childish joy at the taste of the simple drink on holidays.

The sound of the jingle was too much for her mother to bear and she crashed her face into her hands, "Oh my love…" she sobbed.

Christine turned away from the television and helped her mother into bed sitting beside her the entire night. Thinking of her father, his smile, his laughter, and his readiness to tell a story, but most importantly that seemingly unstoppable love for life that had kept him young and spry all these years. His love of Public displays of affection and carelessness of the public eye. The teenager looked at her mother, asleep in the bed and got up to leave. But then she felt her mother grab at her hand, turning she saw her mother looking at her with a tender expression.

"Christine dearling, stay with me tonight, I know you do not want to be alone." She mumbled.

The teen knew that her mom was projecting and did not wish to be alone herself, but she saw no harm in her request. So she lie down beside her and let her mother kiss her head as she pulled the blanket over her. Christine nuzzled her mother's neck affectionately, and in the warmth of her arms, the child crumbled and cried. Her mother made shushing sounds and held her, long into the night until at last, exhausted she fell asleep. The last sound she heard the _click _of the television powering off, her father's picture and the reporter on the hourly re-run of the news


End file.
